


A view to save

by parsleylion



Category: Linkin Park
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-08
Updated: 2017-10-08
Packaged: 2019-01-10 15:55:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12302532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/parsleylion/pseuds/parsleylion
Summary: Chester’s a bit of a diva, so when Mike takes him out into the countryside, it’s not exactly a match made in heaven…





	A view to save

**Author's Note:**

> written for the challenge - http://community.livejournal.com/graffitidec_fic/

It started with a tent.

A  _fucking_  tent.

  
I figured, naively I hasten to add, that perhaps he just wanted to get acquainted with our beautiful yet neglected back yard. I envisaged, whilst sipping a double strength latte the morning he came home with said tent, that he would spend a night under its tarpaulin walls, snuggled up in a sleeping bag with the door zipped open so the moon could gently filter inside. Which I would have perhaps considered. Moonlight. Shadows on tired faces. Watching the night grow. Almost romantic. Obviously the ground sheet would have had to been meticulously checked for any sign of bugs or spiders or those spiders with wings or moths or indeed toads, because you never know with these fucking creatures. Let one roam into your tent with pretty patchwork quilts and piles of fluffy pillows and the whole lot are following like it’s some fucking reptilian party. And then I would have maybe spent a few hours keeping him company, perhaps with some toasted marshmallows and a flask of whiskey. And if I did happen to hear, I don’t know, an intruder furrowing through the bushes which happened to be in actual fact a fox looking for food but scary nonetheless, I would have been able to get the fuck into the house and lock the doors and turn to my box set of Bewitched for comfort.

But no.

_Fucking_  no.

Here we are on the way to the countryside because Mike, God bless him, did not stop after the tent. He went back to that fucking hardware store with its neon sign boasting that it could fulfil everyone’s camping needs and he bought sleeping bags and hiking boots and a fucking gas stove. And honestly, I could have thought of ten million other ways to spend his money for him. Gucci shirts, Prada jackets, a couple of Ibanez guitars and maybe the heated pool we’ve been talking about getting for an absolute age. Anything but camping equipment. I mean, how fucking un-rock and roll can you get?

  
And now we’re driving to some place I’ve never heard the name of, let alone knew existed and we’re in his beloved car that he’s had since he was seventeen which he won’t part with for sentimental reasons I probably won’t ever understand. I mean the only thing I’m terribly attached to is my vintage look Rolex which cost a disgusting amount of dollars and has never been removed from its box. But that’s completely different. I mean, hello, it’s a fucking Rolex for God’s sake and this, this piece of junk we’re currently scraping down the highway in is a rusting 1969 Ford Mustang which should have been sent to the junkyard years before Mike even had his licence.

“Shut the window will you Chester, it’s freezing.”

I’ve been ignoring Mike for the past seventy one minutes and thirty eight seconds. As those words leave his lips in the form of a shout across the gale force winds that are gusting through my open passenger window I simply raise the middle finger on my right hand at him. If Mike had bought along his perfectly good Porsche 911 with silver plated rims and CD player and satellite navigation then the windows would be tightly wound up because  _hello_ , air conditioning came as standard. But no, the Mustang won because the Mustang is Mike’s companion and comes above me and my needs to be able to fucking breathe. So no, I do not shut the window. Ten points though to the Mustang for being so ridiculously old that it doesn’t have electronic windows for Mike’s fingers to control from the comfort of his driver’s seat.

Mike mutters something which includes the words fuck, son of a, yourself, go, you, bitch. What? I have a lot of time to think about these things whilst being stuck in a heap of junk in the middle of fucking no man’s land . And if it weren’t for the ear-stinging sound of the wind whipping through my open window then I’d go stir crazy because this excuse of a car doesn’t even have a fucking radio. I mean what the fuck is with that shit? So I go back to staring coldly out of the grimy part of the windscreen that the wipers never quite reach, thinking longingly of the steak I was going to cook for dinner as my stomach begins to grumble and just to add justice to all of this I lean back in my seat and put my feet up on the dashboard because I know that any second now…

“Chester get your fucking feet down.”

And the exact words my mind was predicting spill from Mike’s mouth. I peek out of the corner of my eyes, using his expression to gauge how fair I can take this little wind up. What? He deserves this. It’s our fucking anniversary and he’s taking me camping for the weekend? At what point do empty fields and cow dung and beans cooked above a fucking gas stove associate with the sentiments of a five year anniversary? Roses, a champagne breakfast followed by hot sex and writhing about on our black, velvet sheets for the day are more like it. I mean if he wanted fresh air so badly I could have, at a push, taken a walk through the hills or maybe we could have just gotten some old blankets out and had a lazy afternoon lying in the yard but no, Mike has to take things to the fucking extreme. And I swear he’s only doing this to wind me up because I did say I wanted to do something special, something I’d never forget for our anniversary. Only my idea of unforgettable is to not be able to walk for a few days because I’ve fucked Mike so hard that every single bone in my body is sore.

“Chester…”

  
  


His voice has kicked up a notch. Not so playful now but more like the warning tone parents emphasise their words with when their bratty little child is about to put dirty, sticky hands around the cushions of mummy’s brand new five thousand dollar couch. So I leave my feet there and for good measure wind the window right down so even more air is whipping into the car.

“Do you have to be such a fucking child?”

The annoying thing is the laugh that follows Mike’s words. He’s not supposed to find this amusing. I turn to glare at him and shrug, my hands and arms stretching out in front of me as I yawn then give him my best nonchalant stare; a look I’ve been perfecting since I was about ten. Seriously, I put the chill factor in blasé. Mike adds furthermore to my annoyance by momentarily taking his hand off the steering wheel and patting my cheek with it. I jerk away and call him an asshole, eyes fixing themselves back on the winding road ahead as he chuckles at me. Bastard.

  
It gets boring after a while, not talking, and also my ass aches from the spring in the passenger seat that decides to jab me every time we drive over a bump. Given that these roads are more like dirt tracks and probably haven’t seen a dollop of fresh asphalt since they were laid in pre-historic times when horsepower was the latest craze, well it means a lot of fucking bumps. So I finally take my feet down from the dashboard because my legs are aching and I shift and lean forward in my seat, pushing my fingers against the pop out compartment which usually houses the ubiquitous boiled sweet, a folded up road map which I do believe from it’s vile, musty, school-library odour came with this fucking pussy of a vehicle, and surprisingly, after my fingers have finished rummaging through the contents of Mike’s glove compartment; condoms.

I smirk and grab a handful of the foil wrapped rubbers.

“If you think for one second that these are going to be needed…” I smirk, my words bellowing above the roar of the engine.

  
Mike takes his eyes of the road for a second and shoots me down with a death glare which I actually believe he has been perfecting for longer than my ‘Do I look like a give a flying fuck?’ expression.

“Just what I was thinking Chester. In. Your. Dreams,” He quips.

I slam the glove compartment shut, not before taking the lemon drop. The sound of the compartment shutting obviously irks Mike as he flinches notably beside me. I clasp the candy in my hand and open and shut the drawer several times, biting back my laughter each time Mike jumps and wraps his hands that bit tighter around the steering wheel. I give him until slam number eight but it’s only on the fifth time of me whacking the plastic back into place that he caves.

“Do that one more fucking time and I swear to God I will pull over and kick you out right now.”

I don’t doubt that he probably would do that if I push him far enough but I slam it one last time nonetheless, ignoring the second death glare within minutes that is dished out to me. Then I unclench my fist and hold the paper wrapped candy up to the light, my eyes challenging it for any sign of dust or dirt particles. Satisfied that the lemon drop is edible, I unwrap it and pop it into my mouth.

Then I suddenly feel bored all over again. Flicking the candy paper in the general direction of Mike and hearing him mutter something unrepeatable is the last bit of satisfaction I have for a few hours. It’s starting to get chilly but there is no way I am closing the window so I pull down the sleeves of my jumper and settle into a light slumber and it probably serves me right that I have a stiff neck when I wake up several hours later but I push that aside and blame Mike instead.

  
“We’ve stopped,” I look about, eyes bleary because the world around me is suddenly very still and very quiet and very fucking dark.

“Well done Einstein.”

My eyes, having slowly adjusted to the dim light, find Mike beside me fiddling with a flashlight. A flash light which I asked repeatedly if it needed new batteries before we set out on this fucking escapade. Mike told me it didn’t but from the way his hands are jabbing at the switch and the way no light whatsoever is being emitted from its humongous fuck-you-energy-saving bulb, then the answer should have been yes.

I snatch the torch from Mike’s hand and slam it against the dashboard.

“Hey!” Mike yelps as if I slammed it against his head.

Wishful. Thinking.

“It’s only a flashlight,” I growl, fingers fumbling to slide off the battery cover.  
  
“I wasn’t concerned about that,” Mike replies sorely, “If you’ve dented the dashboard…”

“Oh what-fucking-ever,” I snap, slamming the batteries out and putting them back in again. I’ve no doubt that doing this will do fuck all to make it work, it’s just that I’m a man and I feel the need to fiddle cantankerously with things in the hope that suddenly they will magically fix themselves and I can play my part as hero.

“It’s fucked,” I finally conclude, dropping the flashlight into Mike’s lap, “And why, exactly, have we stopped?” I ask, eyes making out that we are parked just off the edge of a straight and narrow never ending dust track, surrounded by fields of corn on either side.

“The, erm…”

“Mike?” I turn to glare accusingly.

“We broke down.”

  
“We broke down,” I repeat calmly, processing the words several times in my head, “WE BROKE DOWN?”

Mike nods.

“WE?”

And he nods again.

“No Mike, YOU broke down,” I feel my frustrations rising in the form of high pitched and squeaky voice tones reminiscent of a pre-pubescent boy.

Deep. Breaths.

I clench and unclench my fists. I take more fucking deep breaths. I wriggle free of my seat belt which won’t actually undo because it’s been broken since nineteen-ninety-fucking-four when this piece of shit car landed in Mike Shinoda’s driveway on his seventeenth birthday, having no doubt fallen off the back of the pickup truck that was towing it to the junkyard.

“It’s no biggie,” Mike shrugs, “I figured if I got this flashlight working that we could walk back down this lane and pitch up the tent there. There’s fields of grass a few miles back because obviously we can’t set up the tent in the middle of all that corn.”

“Well no shit Sherlock.”

And for a few moments the only sound filling the air is the rapid agony of my breathing.

“And what do you mean ‘it’s no biggie’?” My mouth doesn’t seem to want to stop as the words suddenly roar from my throat, “Mike we’re fucked and there is no way I am stepping one foot out of this car. I mean who knows what hillbillies are lurking out there at,” I pause glancing at my watch, “Ten thirty. Great. Just. Great.”

“It’s only a few yards back.”

“No.”

And then if suddenly gripped by the terror of some man-eating-axe-wielding-maniac on the loose, I grab the handle on the door and wind the window shut. Then I frantically flick on the child lock because yes, child locks will deter any psychopath out there. I shiver then fall back in my seat. I’m starving, cold and tired and Mike is staring at me like I just ripped out his soul and shat on it.

“What?” I glare.

Mike shrugs.

“ _What_?”

“It’s not far. We can pitch up the tent then call for help in the morning.”

“How? Morse code? Flag waving theatrics?”

“It’s called semaphore…”

“See this is why we should have bought cell phones. I mean who leaves their lounge to go take a piss in the bathroom without picking up their cell and taking it with them these days?”

Mike raises his eyebrows at me and in turn I raise my hand because there’s no way he’s interrupting me now.

“And hello, where are we going to phone from? These cavemen out here don’t have phones. They’re all thatched roofs and log fires and slaughtering lambs and incest,” I shudder, “Face it. We’re fucked. We. Are. Fucked. We’re going to die from hypothermia and our rotting corpses won’t be found for months by which time we will have decayed and be unrecognisable and our friends and families will never get any closure because they will never know if we’re alive or not.”

“Jesus Chester. It’s July.”

“And?”

“It’s not going to get lower than fifty degrees.”

“Yes well, it’d be just our luck that some freakish weather decides to unleash it’s fury on America. It would serve Al Gore right for insisting we need to take our televisions off standby.”

“Chester you’re being irrational. Now will you help me get the tent out of the trunk.”

“I’m not getting out! We are not going to camp out here in fucking wilderness.”

“Oh suit yourself. I’ll get the tent myself. I’ll give you a few minutes to decide if you’re joining me or not.”

I click my jaw. Something I only do when I’m extremely pissed over something. Mike gets out of the car and slams the door. I shiver and pull the hood on my jumper up. An icy blast of air pours in when he opens the trunk and I swear he takes his time getting everything he needs out just to irk me. He slams the door and the car vibrates for a few seconds.

“You coming?”

I deliberately don’t answer.

“Chaz?”

I bite my lip and stare ahead. My neck still fucking aches.

“Fine.”

I reach up to rub my shoulder, shuddering as my cold fingers make contact with my skin. I rub at the sore patch, groaning under my breath as I realise right now I could be polishing off that lovely piece of steak, preferably being spoon fed it by Mike as we recline naked on the couch, the leather sticking slightly to our clammy, sex stained bodies.

  
Then I realise Mike has gone.

I almost bang my head as I sit up straight with a jolt. I spin around, eyes squinting through the back window. I can’t see him. My eyes snap to the side. He’s not there. My heart thunders in my chest. Oh God, I can see the news headlines on MTV:

_LINKIN PARK EMCEE SAVAGED BY PACK OF HUNGRY WOLVES._

_HELPLESS SHINODA TORN TO DEATH BY WILD BEASTS._

My hands shake as I grab the flashlight from where Mike let it drop to the floor. It’s heavy enough to knock something out so I clench my clammy hands around it and take deep, strong breaths as I unlock my door and hastily climb out of the car.

And there he is, his shadowy figure walking down the dust track. If he had bothered to take this heap of junk to a car wash I might have been able to see him through the window.

“Mike!” I shout out.

He carries on walking.

"MICHAEL SHINODA GET BACK HERE AT ONCE.”  
  
He stops. Slowly turns to face me.

“Mike?” My voice is tragically weak.

He just stares. He’s going to make me fucking beg, isn’t he? Time to suck up my pride.

  
I shut the car door and ignore the way my heart is pounding and the way my ears can hear the corn whispering things through the night. It seems like an eternity to reach Mike and my feet carry me there as fast as I can possibly walk without turning into a run. He needn’t know just quite how desperately scared I am right now. Besides, I can’t actually run because the army boots I’m wearing are brand new and fastened ridiculously tight, so much so that I’ve lost all feeling below my knees.

“Mike,” I pause to catch my breath as I reach him, noting just how damn adorable he looks with his tent kit slung over one arm and his beanie hat tugged down over his hair.

“What?”

“Please come back,” I gush out, “I really don’t like it out here.”

Mike shrugs. I roll my eyes.

“Look, I know I’ve been a complete bitch and I probably deserve to be left to rot in your skanky excuse of a car but seriously Mike, I don’t feel safe out here,” I pause to swallow what’s left of my pride, “And if anything were to happen to you then you know damn well I’d never forgive myself.”

  
Mike’s glare is fast to soften and I’m glad that my cheese-infested words which I hated admitting to, weren’t in vain.

“I just,” Mike sighs, “Chester I wanted to make today special. I guess I pretty much failed?”  
  
Ouch. A pang hits my heart. Yes, I do have one and right now it hurts. Like a bitch who’s just been kicked in the balls, brandished with a hot iron then forced to listen to Vanilla Ice on repeat.

“Look, you said you wanted to do something special and I figured this might  _be_  special. We’re always in that city Chester and sometimes it gets too much. I love what we do but there are times I just want to goof out and not be that famous guy out of that famous rock band. Don’t you?”

“I… I guess,” I find myself agreeing, “But that’s what we have pyjamas and tubs of ice cream and really bad film collections for…”

Mike smiles and tilts his head, “Yeah but sometimes it takes more than that Chester. You’ve never really been out of that city.”

“I have,” I hate how indignant I sound but I can’t help it, “World tours, remember?!”

“Yeah but how often do we see any of the places we visit? How often do we get a chance to just escape that world of gigs and meeting fans and photo shoots and press and award shows? Don‘t you ever feel like getting away from it all, even if it’s just for a few hours?”

He has a very strong point.

“I just wanted you to see this place. I used to come up here as a kid and,” He pauses, “You said you never took vacations as a kid. I don’t know, I guess I got sentimental and remembered about the nights I spent watching the stars and the moon and just the utter calm I felt from being in the middle of nowhere without a care in the world. It’s like nothing else matters when you’re out here. You forget about all the bullshit life throws at you and I just wanted to share that with you…”

I feel like shit. Utter shit. All day I’ve been sarcastic and bitchy and picking at every little thing and all because I’m afraid of a bit of fresh air and a couple of nights away from the comfort of life’s luxuries such as expensive bath oils and takeaway Thai food delivered to my door by an extremely cute oriental looking guy in leather complete with shiny motorcycle.

“I’m so sorry.”

“No,” Mike shakes his head, “Don’t be. It was a lame idea anyway.”

“No,” I sigh, “Mike it wasn’t lame. It was really thoughtful. You’re right, I’ve never done anything like this before and it was really kind of you to go to all this effort.”

Mike scuffs his feet against the gravel.

“We can carry on to a campsite tomorrow, right? I mean there’s bound to be someone passing by who can help fix the car.”

Mike smiles softly, “Chester you don’t have to say that just to…”

“No,” I shake my head, “I want to.”

His smile gets bigger.

“I mean this campsite has shower blocks right? And a toilet?”  
  
“No you have to piss in a bucket, or sometimes a long drop.”

“Are you…”

“Yes I’m kidding,” He narrows his eyes in a playful manner, “Not everything in the countryside is as uncivilised as you think.”

“Sorry,” I reply bashfully.

“Come on,” Mike sighs, “Lets get back into the car before you catch pneumonia.”

“Bastard.”

“Touché.”

I wrap my hand around Mike’s as we walk back to the car and he’s right, it does feel like another world out here. The only sound is our footsteps crunching against gravel and dirt and as we reach the car and Mike stops to put the tent back into the trunk I gaze around, marvelling at the acres of open space that spread out like an ocean around me. I make a mental note to stop being so un-fucking-grateful about my life and take in a deep breath of fresh air. It makes a refreshing change from the usual smog-clogged stuff that seeps into my lungs on a daily basis.

The car feels surprisingly warm when I get in after Mike and shut the door, my hands still automatically flicking the safety lock on, though I’m less convinced about there being any psychopaths on the loose and more convinced that I really do need to take a chill pill.

“You cold?” Mike suddenly asks.

“Not really,” I yawn.

Mike rolls his eyes, “You’re supposed to say yes?”

“Oh really?”

I smirk to myself and shrug but then I realise that I’ve probably used up my quota of being a total bastard for the century, let alone the day so I slide my hand to Mike’s thigh and bite my lip.

“I could pretend though,” I smile, “If you promise to warm me up?”

“I actually think you should be the one to warm me up,” Mike replies with an air of frankness that even I would be pushed to muster.

Well, again, he does have a point and I suddenly feel like now is probably the time I need to start redeeming myself. I’m honestly not this much of a brat but take me out of my comfort zone and apparently I become a little testy.

“I’m sorry,” I sigh, looking at Mike, “I really am. I’ve behaved like a whiny little bitch. And I’m sorry,” I repeat, “I do love you, y’know. Probably more than I’d like to admit.”

Mike frowns, “And you’re telling me this because…”

“Because,” I smile feeling a blush rise into my cheeks, “I feel really bad.”

“Chester,” Mike laughs, “Chester you can be a total bitch at times but seriously, I love it.”

I raise my eyebrows.

“And no,” He pulls a face, “Not in a lame ‘I find it really hot’ manner. It, it keeps things interesting and I honestly wouldn’t have you any other way,” Mike shrugs.

“You could at least berate me,” I feel a smile tugging at the corners of my mouth.

“You mean tell you to get down on your knees and prove how sorry you are?”

“Something like that,” I shrug coyly.

“Whore.”

“Hey!” I aim to whack him playfully in the side but his hands grab my wrists and he pulls me down against him, his lips warm as they brush against mine.

We share tiny kisses which fast grow into something more needy when Mike lets go of my hands and they close around his waist, dancing against his cool skin. His hands pull my body on top of him and pretty soon I’m straddling him in the drivers seat of his car.

  
“Mike?” I groan as his fingertips press into the small of my back.

“Mmm?”

  
“Please tell me these seats go back,” I utter.

  
**FIN.**


End file.
